Fred the Pirate and other poems

FRED THE PIRATE AND OTHER POEMS

  Paul Chapman

  Copyright 2013 Paul Chapman

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  CONTENTS

  My uncle Fred the pirate

  A day with OCD

  Best friends

  Bonsai tree

  The seagull

  Venting my spleen

  The café girl of Huddersfield

  Dancing the Pasodoble

  Does superman pick his nose

  Elfin child

  Fluffy kittens

  The cage

  The nudist beach

  Paquita

  The cowboy hat

  Small change

  The beggars mass

  In for a treat

  Flawed

  Day one

  Ethereal shite

  Red geraniums

  The poets and writer group

  The fiesta of San Marco

  MY UNCLE FRED THE PIRATE

  My uncle Fred as I’d been told

  Had once been a pirate bold

  He’d lost his leg as pirates do

  And when he had to buy a shoe

  He always had to pay for two

  So on the internet he’d try

  And then going by the book

  Asked for a wife with just one foot

  At last he met a maiden fair

  With whom his life he could share

  Some days they’d walk down the street

  With hobnail boots on their feet

  Sometimes to a dance they’d go

  In brightly sequined stiletto

  And to the rhythm and the beat

  They’d dance the high fandango

  A DAY WITH O.C.D

  He wakes at seven twenty five

  Showers then washes his hands

  Three times

  Dresses

  He has three sets of clothes all the same

  He sits at the table watching the seconds tick by

  5 4 3 2 1

  Exactly eight o’clock

  Leaves the house after locking it three times

  425 steps to the paper shop

  He counts them

  Buys the paper

  The man in the paper shops birthday is

  12/06/62

  898 steps to café

  He as been to the café 1694 times

  Two waitresses

  10/02/91 and 17/07/96

  Coffee then breakfast then another coffee

  Same seat same table by the window

  Every day at eight seventeen

  Today was bad

  Some people are sat at his table

  He stands and looks

  It’s my bloody table

  Waitress 17/07/96 speaks to him

  “I’ll ask them to move” she says

  “No no I’ll go” he says

  Don’t they understand

  It’s my table

  It’s eight seventeen

  Breakfast at eight seventeen

  Then 984 steps to the Day Center

  There he looks at numbers at the patterns

  It’s all wrong

  He stands in the street counting

  “It’s my table” he says to himself

  He stands alone in the street

  He is shaking and lost.

  BEST FRIENDS.

  At dawn a mist covered the shore

  There were no people

  The man walked along the sand

  In the company of his friend

  They did not talk

  Knowing each other so well

  There was no need

  Soon they reached the place

  A quite bay surrounded by rocks

  A boat at anchor in the bay

  The man sat on a rock and spoke

  And to his friend he said goodbye

  He stayed awhile until the tide had changed

  As one small tear fell from his eye

  Then alone he walked away

  And in his hands the empty urn

  BONSAI TREE

  He walked hand in hand with his father

  High into the mountains into the clouds

  To search for his tree

  He found the small olive seedling among the rocks

  He returned to his house

  The tiny tree cradled in his hands

  Now for 40 years he has tended the tree

  Each morning before the sun scorches the earth

  Moving the tree into the shade

  He waters the tree twice

  Wires each branch and twig

  Each grey leaf perfect

  The old bark cracked and rugged

  In May small green flowers will burst

  And glow among the grey green leaves

  For many years his father as gone

  Now he grows the tree

  For his grandson

  Who is yet to be born

  THE SEAGULL

  If I was a seagull

  I’d fly out to the sea

  I’d watch out for the fishy bits

  And have them for my tea

  When my belly it is full

  I’d head back to the shore

  Where high above your heads I’d soar

  To aim a little gift for you

  A little

  Fishy

  Poo

  VENTING MY SPLEEN

  I’m not sure how long it’s been

  But it seems I’ve vented my spleen

  I’m not sure how or why I did it

  But someone said I done it

  Now my spleen has been vented

  I’m worried

  Should I see a medic

  Or even a surgeon

  To unvent it?

  So yesterday I saw a doctor

  Told him my spleen had been vented

  He looked at me

  Patted me on the head and called me an idiot

  Now I’m even more worried

  I have a vented spleen

  And a diagnosis from the doctor

  Of being a blithering idiot

  THE CAFÉ GIRL OF HUDDERSFIELD

  With greasy hair and spotted skin

  She pours cracked jugs of tea

  Do you want sugar in it

  As she doles out two spoons

  Then turning to fry egg and chips

  But

  She dreams of a sun kissed isle

  Where coconut palms sway

  In a warm salt laden breeze

  She pours out the planters punch

  Adorned with tiny bright umbrellas

  Then goes to swim naked

  In azure coral spangled seas

  Where phospherant sea horses play

  Among the star lit waves

  Next day she buys tiny coloured umbrellas

  And adorns each mug of tea

  To brighten up her day

  And dreams

  DANCING THE PASODOBLE

  The old folk sit around the wall

  Their chairs highbacked plastic covered

  The television shows a Columbian soap

  But no one watches

  Someone totters off to the bathroom

  Calling for a nurse as he goes

  But today it is different someone plays music

  With hands clapping and feet tapping<
br />
  Then to the shouts of olay

  The old folk rise to dance

  Their arthritis forgotten their dim eyes shine

  As in their minds they return to the time

  When they were young and virile

  When the senors were matadors

  And the senoritas had roses in their mouths

  With grace and passion they danced

  The pasodoble

  Then at last the music stops they return to their chairs

  And someone totters off to the bathroom

  Calling for a nurse

  DOES SUPERMAN PICK HIS NOSE

  Does superman ever pick his nose?

  He might do I suppose

  Although I’ve never seen him do it

  I think he might alone in secret

  Do his bogies glow in the dark?

  Do they turn into kryptonite?

  When he blows out his birthday candles

  Are things destroyed as though by vandals?

  And worse of all when he breaks wind

  Is there typhoons and hurricanes?

  People tremble and live in fear

  When he lets gas out of his rear

  The ozone layer beyond repair

  Climate change gets worse each year

  So breaking wind and picking noses

  Might not smell of scented roses

  But if these are done by your man

  Just thank God he is not superman

  ELFIN CHILD

  The daydreaming child stolen by elves

  To live in her own mystic world

  She does not see the reality of life

  For she resides in a very different place

  In a world of beauty and kindness

  Of knights on snow white horses

  Sweeping her off her feet

  The air is full of rainbows

  That sparkles in the eternal sun

  But that was when she was young

  When others said “How quaint.” And smiled

  At such a dream like child

  Now she is sixteen years

  And she has learnt

  That beautiful people are not kind

  There are no knights on snow white steeds

  The men that drive expensive cars

  And only want one thing

  The rainbows have dispersed

  Leaving indelible marks

  On her pallid skin

  FLUFFY KITTEN

  I have no birds left in the garden

  And all the mice have gone

  It’s all down to Kellogg

  That’s the name of my very fat cat

  Now she sits on the dresser

  With a wicked glint in her eye

  She eyeing up my goldfish

  That swims in a bowl on the side

  I feed her with plenty of cat food

  But that does not seem to fill her

  So I gave her the name of Kellogg

  Cause she’s a serial killer

  OK I know I didn’t quite do the fluffy kitten bit but pretty close

  THE CAGE.

  The brilliant yellow green canary

  Flutters feebly to the ground

  Then flying weakly to the low branches

  Unable to reach the higher branches

  To the safety of the foliage

  To hide amongst the leaves

  All its life it had been confined

  Its world a small cage

  Fed and watered

  It would fill the air with song

  But now by chance it has freedom

  Now to afraid now to sing

  Does it yearn for the safety of its cage?

  For truly the cage was her protection

  In its freedom it will not survive

  Do we also need the confines of society?

  The moral cage that is imposed upon us

  Although we may yearn for freedom

  Would we survive without restrictions?

  Or would we flutter weakly

  Then fall as prey to the marauding beasts of this world

  That lay in wait to devour the innocent

  THE NUDIST BEACH

  200 lumps of corpulent flesh

  400 wobbling chins

  Buckets full of sunscreen

  Splashed about at whim

  Soon the conservationists

  Into the bay do sail

  To save the marine disaster

  Of 200 stranded whales

  Each one is then towed out to sea

  It’s all OK they can not drown

  For they are so fat

  They just bob around

  PAQUITA

  .

  From far of Ecuador she came

  With visions of a better life

  No more to see her friends again

  And to leave her family home

  With her she brings the tunes and songs

  From the Andes high

  And the verdant valleys of her land

  Where she will always belong

  Even now after many years

  Her heart and mind are there

  And when she hears Mercedes sing

  The tears begin to fall

  Gracias la Vida and

  Alfonsina de la Mar

  The songs of her homeland

  Soothes her heart and soul.

  THE COWBOY HAT

  .

  A while ago I was given a gift

  It hangs from a nail on the wall

  Its round and it’s brown with a very large rim

  And it hales from Ecuador

  I’ve been told by the bearer

  That all men wear them

  In far off Ecuador

  But to me it seems flashy

  And not at all dashing

  That’s why it hangs on the nail

  That’s where it is parked

  Until after dark

  Then I wear it without fail

  I suppose I have to be thankful

  For as far as things go

  It could have been worse

  It could have been Mexico

  SMALL CHANGE

  He approaches each person

  The man from Polonia

  Holding out his hand

  Politely asking, pleading

  For small change

  His wife sits on a nearby bench

  She’s pregnant

  I look at the woman

  She looks tired and resigned

  Like a dog that has been beaten too much

  Her spirit broken

  For two hours

  In the scorching Spanish sun

  I watch people walk by their heads held high

  And I weep for man’s inhumanity to fellow men

  Their disregard for the sufferings of others

  THE BEGGARS MASS

  Each Sunday he’s there

  Each Mass each Evensong

  As the church bells call the faithful to prayer

  He sits on the steps

  His skin the colour of burnished hazelnuts

  Once he had shoes but no more

  His mongrel dog asleep in his lap

  The priest greets each person

  The beggar does not exist

  The beggar speaks to each person as they enter the church

  Very few return the greeting

  In their fine Sunday clothes

  And their one euro for the church

  They put their coin onto the plate with a show and flourish

  And bow to the battle flags that adorn the alter

  The beggar will be lucky to get a few cents

  When they die who will be sat outside heavens gate?

  Who will enter the kingdom of God

  The beggar or the self-righteous?

  Will the meek ever inherit the earth?

  IN FOR A TREAT

  The two bluebottle flies

  Watched as the dog crapped

  Befouling the street

&nbs
p; They descended with no reservations

  They were in for a treat

  As they alighted

  They were delighted

  In their life of

  Low expectations

  FLAWED.

  He’s flawed he knows it

  He knows he’s different

  Can’t quite put his finger on it

  Ok we all sin

  Nobody’s perfect

  He can understand that

  It’s as though he

  Self-destructs

  Like a Charlie’s Angels tape

  As soon as people get close

  Bam

  He puts up a wall

  One day friendly

  Then up it goes

  Like ice

  End of friendship

  End of love

  Move on

  Live with it

  DAY ONE

  Dawn had my last cigarette

  Took the dog out

  Two hours later had my forth cup of coffee

  Took the dog to the park to play

  Sat on a bench to get some fresh air

  By lunch time I could kill

  Decide to have a burger for lunch

  Served by a spotty faced youth

  Who tells me to have a nice day

  Bleeding idiot

  I bet he smokes

  I glare at him and he goes pale

  Mumbles sorry and goes into the back

  I see Jose and we stand and chat

  He’s happily smoking

  Antonio walks past

  Puffing away

  Bastards I hate every one

  By morning I’ll hate the whole world

  I think for the benefit of all mankind

  I should buy a packet of cigs

  ETHEREAL SHITE

  Riding high on your first book

  Hoping someone will take a look

  Then when you reach the height

  Someone calls it ethereal shite

  So why on google do we write?

  Our poems the good or bad

  Does some good come out of it

  Is this also ethereal shite?

  A poet needs his poems to write

  Otherwise a secret they become

  To never see the light

  or is this also ethereal shite?

  THE RED GERANIUMS.

  Each day I see them on their balcony

  The old man and his wife

  They relax in the evening sun

  She tend the red geraniums in their clay pots

  For well over a year I’ve seen them

  Now we acknowledge each other

  With a wave or a nod of the head

  Last week they had visitors

  A young couple and 3 children

  I heard them laughing and chattering

  For three days I did not see the old couple

  Now only the old woman sits on the balcony

  Tending the scarlet geraniums

  Perhaps very little as changed

  But to her the whole world is different

  THE POETS AND WRITERS GROUP

  At 11 o’clock they always meet